21. The Checklist Goes On
THE CHECKLIST GOES ON
Kayleigh
Istand at the stove in Trevor’s kitchen, my wrist turning the wooden spoon in slow, obsessive circles.
The pan hisses and pops, little flecks of charred green flying up from the tangle of broccolini and lemon zest. Next to that, a salmon fillet is grilling in cast iron, skin curling and blistering.
I know nothing about fish except that he eats a ton of it, that he likes it lean and salty, and that the fridge in this penthouse has more high-end protein than a Whole Foods delivery.
The scent is sharp and clean, citrus cutting through the slick weight of olive oil.
I taste the air, lick the inside of my cheek, and feel a thrill that isn’t just about being hungry.
The penthouse is silent except for the sound of the vent fan and the steady sizzle of dinner. Forty floors below, the city is a lattice of motion and headlights, but up here it feels like an aquarium: just me, the food, and the constant pulse of what I’m about to become.
I keep checking the door. I’m in a dress again - a white shirtwaist dress this time, because I didn’t want to look like I’m trying too hard, but I also want him to look at me and see the effort.
My hair is still half-damp from a panic shower; I did a messy braid, then undid it because it looked too wholesome, and now it falls in loose, flowing waves over my shoulders.
There’s nothing under the dress except a lace thong and the kind of bra that does more harm than good.
I almost wore sneakers, but went with the low heels I picked up from my apartment, white leather with a strap so tight it leaves a groove in my instep.
My face is bare, scrubbed pink, lips swollen from chewing the inside of them while I cooked.
Every minute I wait, my nerves wrap tighter. I taste-test the vegetables and burn my tongue, then pour myself a shot of water in a wine glass and drink it in gulps, hoping it will make my heart slow down. It doesn’t.
The elevator chimes. Three floors below, then two, then one. I wipe my hands on a bar towel and try to look busy, but when the door swings open, I’m standing right in the middle of the kitchen, like a rabbit caught in the spotlight.
Trevor stalks into the kitchen—no hurry, no wasted motion, coat slung over his shoulder, black hair slightly damp from the walk home.
His shirt is white, collar open, sleeves rolled just enough to show a trace of muscle on his forearms. The trousers are dark and perfectly fitted.
I catch a glimpse of his shoes, black and Italian, but they’re scuffed at the heel in a way that makes me weak.
His face is tired, maybe, but not in the way of most people—more like he’s powered by an engine that can never really shut down.
His eyes go straight to the food, then to me, and something in his expression softens by half a millimeter.
“Smells good,” he growls, and sets his keys on the marble.
“Thanks,” I say, and my voice jumps an octave. “It’s just salmon and, um, some veggies. I didn’t know what you wanted.”
He circles the island, leans on the counter, and watches me stir. The kitchen is high-gloss everything—counters, appliances, even the backsplash—and the light throws tiny reflections everywhere, catching the sweat on my neck and the freckles on my arms.
“I’ll like whatever you cook,” he says. “I’m sure you’re excellent.”
I laugh. “Maybe you should wait to taste my food before giving me compliments.”
He grins, but doesn’t answer. His gaze lingers on the hem of my dress, then drifts up, taking in the full inventory. My heart does a painful double-flip, but I keep stirring, pretending I don’t notice.
“How was your day?” I ask. The question lands between us, domestic and almost wifely, and for a second I wish I could snatch it out of the air and take it back it because why did I ask that?
Why did I make it sound like we’re an established couple in a loving relationship, when actually, Trevor’s a billionaire asshole who’s forced me to become his sex slave?
He shrugs, but the line of his jaw is stern. “We’re ahead of schedule. Counterpoint’s going to IPO next year, and the team’s already celebrating like it’s over. A lot of hand-wringing from legal, but that’s expected.” His eyes flick back to mine. “It’s always a fucking shit show.”
I nod, like I understand, but the truth is, I don’t.
I barely grasp what Counterpoint even does—something with artificial intelligence, machine learning, and the word ‘platform’ used as both noun and verb.
What I do know is that it pays for this penthouse and all the food in the fridge, and that Trevor works more hours than anyone I’ve ever met.
He watches me taste the veggies again, and then says, “And you? How was your first day of indenture?”
The word makes me flush, but I try to play it cool. “Pretty good, actually,” I say. “I got a lot done.”
He quirks an eyebrow. “Like what?”
I look at the stove, then back at him. “Um, I did most of your list.”
His smile gets sharper. “Which parts?”
I swallow. “I quit my job at The Fig Leaf. Angela was really nice about it, but I think she thinks I’m running from an abusive boyfriend. But I didn’t tell her about you or anything.” I say this last part fast, in case he’s worried about security or whatever.
His eyes crinkle with amusement. “Great. I thought you’d give at least a week of notice.”
I swallow. “I told her it was urgent. She understood.”
He nods, and the look of approval is so potent I almost drop the spoon. “Good. And the rest?”
I take a shaky breath. “I moved my stuff from my old apartment here. Some of it, anyway. There wasn’t a lot. But the closet in my bedroom here is too small, so I put some of my clothes in the one off the kitchen.” I pause, then force a laugh. “Hope that’s okay.”
He makes a sound low in his throat. “You can put your things wherever you want, sweetheart. There’s plenty of space.”
My face goes pink, and I try to cover it by fussing with the stove. “Thanks, and I like my room,” I fib. “I like the twin bed. Reminds me of when I was little and makes me feel safe.”
He says nothing, but the silence has a weight to it.
I scrape the salmon onto a plate and bring it to him, then sit at the island with my own food. The light outside is shifting, the windows tinting the skyline a bruised lavender. For a minute, we eat without talking, just the soft scrape of forks and the hum of the fridge.
After a few bites, he says, “And the rest of the list?”
I blink, then remember. I pick up my water, take a tiny sip, and set it down with both hands wrapped around the glass.
“I went to the pharmacy,” I say, and my voice is so small I have to repeat it. “I got the stuff you said. Condoms and Plan B. And… I didn’t know if you wanted me to get on, like, hormonal birth control too? I’ll have to go to the doctor but just so you know, I’m not on anything right now.”
He tilts his head, eyes suddenly bright. “The condoms are fine. You’re a young, healthy woman and hormonal birth control is fucking insidious. Even after women stop that shit, the chemicals stay in your body for a long while, and can be hard to flush out. So no, we won’t risk that.”
I squint at him because is he implying what I think he’s implying? Does Trevor want to get me pregnant at some point down the line? The thought blows my mind, and I don’t know how to respond to that, so I just nod, the motion stiff and awkward.
Meanwhile, my stepbrother sets his fork down and leans over the counter. His hand comes up, slow and deliberate, and cups my jaw, thumb pressing a gentle line along my cheekbone. His skin is warm, the pressure careful, but there’s no doubt who’s in charge.
“I’ll take care of you, sweetheart,” he growls, and there’s a note in his voice that I’ve never heard before. Something that feels intimate, like a secret he’s letting me in on. “There’s no reason to be nervous about your first time. You’re mine now so you don’t have to worry.”
I look at his hand on my face, then back at his eyes, which are so blue and direct that I feel myself sinking.
My heart is running a two-minute mile, my body electric and hot in ways that make me want to run and never stop, or else never move again.
Yet I feel safe in this space with him and mentally hand him the reins, my spine sagging a bit as relief floods my veins.
“Okay,” I whisper. I don’t know what else to say.
He lets his thumb rest there, just for a second longer, and then pulls away, the loss of contact making me shiver. He picks up his fork, takes another bite of salmon, and looks at me like he’s trying to memorize everything about this moment.
We eat in silence for a while, the only sounds the tick of silverware and the low susurration of the city through the windows.
I keep sneaking glances at him, the way the light off the kitchen throws shadows along his jaw, the way his hands move—efficient, precise, but never hurried.
He finishes his plate before I’m even halfway done, then sits back, folds his arms, and studies me.
“You did well today, Kayleigh,” he says finally. “You’ve adapted beautifully.”
It’s the closest thing to praise I’ve ever heard from him, and it fills me up in a way that’s both embarrassing and euphoric.
I smile, and it’s real.
“Thank you,” I murmur, a blush creeping on my cheeks.
He stands, pushes his chair back, and walks around the island. His footsteps are slow, but my pulse picks up anyway. He stops next to me, close enough that I can smell the faint trace of his cologne, the salt from his skin. He extends his hand, palm up, and waits.
I know what he wants.
I put my hand in his.
The grip is warm, strong, and absolute.
He doesn’t say anything as he leads me down the hallway toward my tiny bedroom.
Maybe I’m on the back foot.
Maybe I have no control over what’s going to happen next.